


red

by orphan_account



Series: lipstick / lace / skin [1]
Category: The Horrors (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Collars, Crossdressing, Dom/sub Undertones, Feminization, Light Bondage, Lingerie, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Schmoop, Unsafe Sex, bye, crossdrhyssing, porn with some sad excuse for a plot, porn with symbolism, rhys wears panties in this bye, this confuses me, yeah this has a lot of things in it i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 19:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhys wears pretty panties and Faris fucks him. a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	red

**Author's Note:**

> this is literally the first smut fic I've ever wrote and I edited it a lot before posting it to here and I think I still hate it but I'm trying not to and blah blah blah self deprecating.

Where they are is a café, one of these stuffy old-fashioned places with crocheted tablecloths and tasselled lampshades that are so dimly lit it feels like being in a warm, dry womb that smells like heavy perfume.

Rhys is watching Faris scribble manically into his notebook, shaky silhouettes and spirals and spider webs, occasionally a rushed sentence fragment in all capital letters. He watches the page slowly fill out with dark ink, and briefly, he wonders whether this is like a game to Faris, whether he wants to see just how much black he can scrawl onto a single page while still getting a distinguishable end result out of it. Crosses and triangles spill out onto the paper and turn into another maze of cobwebs, and Rhys nudges Faris' shin with the tip of one black winklepicker.

The movement of Faris' hands grinds down to a slower pace without really skidding to a halt, and without looking up from the sketchy shapes, he goes, “hm?”

“Faris?”

“Yes?”

“I'm really bored.”

Rhys can't remember whose idea it had been to venture into this place in the first place, but they'd spent hours wandering around town aimlessly, popping in and out of record stores and vintage shops without actually buying anything, and then the rain had picked up and Rhys had started to freeze, and so, somehow, they'd ended up in here.

Faris makes a mumbled noise expressing a mixture of disdain and apathy, and then he says, “well, the coffee should be here soon. I hope.” While he says this, he's looking at Rhys' mouth, chapped and still a bit reddened with the cold, like he wants to kiss it, or like he wants to eat his lips right off his face, Rhys isn't sure, and there's a glint to Faris' eyes that makes Rhys think that maybe, Faris wants more than just a kiss right now.

Rhys wants it too, wants it bad, and he throws a glance towards the one window at the far end of the room to see if it's still raining out there, if they could just ditch it and go back to his flat right now.

“God, the service in this place is shit,” Rhys says, mainly just to say anything at all.

Faris nods. “Think I'll have a talk with the manager,” and he goes back to drawing.

This time, it's the outlines of a scribbly face, and going from the high cheekbones and dark hair that nearly obscures the eyes Rhys guesses that it's meant to be him. He watches as Faris adds hints of long eyelashes and a tiny mouth and draws the beginning of slim, bare shoulders, and then he looks away and at his own thin fingers spread out on the table instead. Rhys inspects his nails, clipped short and worn down further from playing the organ, and soft and damaged from constant use of nail varnish remover. He scratches at a couple of red paint flecks he finds still stuck in the corner of one nail, but fails to get them off, and then Faris nudges his shoulder and points his chin toward the waitress slowly approaching them.

The waitress is a young girl, the same age as Faris, maybe, and her nails are painted the exact same shade of red. Rhys tries not to stare when he thanks her for the coffee, and then they just sit there in silence and stir sugar cubes into their drinks for a little while. Faris had ordered a piece of chocolate cake to go with his, the kind with sticky icing that sits heavy in your stomach if you eat as much as one bite of it, and Rhys watches him eat, as weird as the image of Faris eating chocolate cake appears to him. He gulps down his latte greedily, almost as if he's desperate to get something warm into his stomach, and the foam on top sticks to his upper lip in a little milk moustache.

Faris swipes it off with one finger and sucks it into his mouth, and Rhys can't stop himself from pulling a face. Faris laughs at him and says, “it's just milk, you know.” The same finger pokes at the outside of Rhys' thigh, and he adds, “dirty-minded, aren't you.”

Rhys doesn't know what to say to that, what Faris wants him to say at that moment, and so, he just laughs in the back of his throat. Faris smirks at him from under his fringe, and then they both laugh, and Faris sips his drink carefully. “It's your birthday soon.”

“What do you mean?” Rhys asks.

Faris shrugs and stirs his coffee yet again. “Don't know. 'm just,” he pokes at his chocolate cake uselessly, prodding the crumby pastry with the tines of his fork like he's provoking it to attack him, “just saying.” Rhys shrugs back, and Faris pushes the platter over to him. “Here, eat this.”

“Something wrong with it?”

“Just a little too sweet. Eat it, all right?”

“I'm not really hungry.” Rhys pokes at the cake as well and sneers at it, a little, already disgusted by the mere sight of it.

“Just a couple bites, come on. You're so skinny, it's not a good look.”

Rhys brings a small forkful to his mouth and chews, and it's as sticky and sickeningly sweet as it looks.

Faris chuckles into his coffee. “Now, that wasn't too hard, was it?” He leans toward Rhys and curls one finger into his scarf. “And besides,” he says, tugging just the slightest bit, and then his voice drops down to a whisper, “I'd hate to do the things I've got planned for tonight on an empty stomach to you.”

Rhys gasps out a short breath, probably louder than he should have, already starting to get turned on merely by the feeling of the fabric tightening around his throat, and feels his face heat up with the blood rushing under his skin. Already, he can feel the thin silk of the panties he's wearing start to strain the slightest bit.

–

The room is completely dark but for the slivers of headlights coming from the cars occasionally passing by outside, but if Rhys looks down, he can make out traces of red leading down Faris' chest, perfect prints of his lips around his navel, red ringed around the base of his now softening cock. He's pretty sure that the same shade of red, mingled with spit and come, must be smeared over his bottom lip and around his chin where Faris is placing careful little kisses to the skin and stroking his jawline.

“Next time,” Rhys whispers at the sight of all the mess they've made, and he sucks his breath in sharply when Faris' other hand strokes the smooth nylon covering his thigh, “I'll buy kiss-proof lipstick.”

Faris laughs into his neck and presses a kiss to a faded bruise there, and his fingers move toward the heavy leather collar Rhys is wearing, already beginning to unbuckle it. Rhys' head is still all soft, fuzzy and gone-under, but on the other hand, he's so, so self-satisfied, satisfied with the taste of Faris in his mouth and Faris' lips on his neck, Faris' voice whispering soft fragments of “lovely, beautiful, wonderful,” into his skin, but still, when Faris tries to pull the collar off, he doesn't quite want to lose the feeling yet.

“You don't have to keep wearing it,” Faris says, but his other hand moves from the collar to the front of Rhys' lace knickers either way, freeing the head of his cock. “You've been so good tonight. Such a good girl.”

His thumb swirls around the head, smearing little drops of precome downwards and Rhys pushes his hips forward and throws his head back, offering Faris more of the pale skin of his throat. He's still soft, still fuzzy, but now he wants to be the one who's getting touched, wants Faris all over him. His breath's already coming fast, and a little, he's ashamed, ashamed of how easily Faris does this to him, gets him wound up and desperate before he's even been touched, but then, it's not like he doesn't live up to Rhys' expectations.

“Such a good little toy. Such a slag. Prettiest slag,” Faris continues, and it's too much, really, too cheesy, but still Rhys can't help but feel flattered. Faris' hand strokes over the bruises once more, the fingers and teeth marks pressed into the pale flesh, and then it comes to rest on Rhys' cheek. “So glad to have you. D'you want your reward now, princess?” He presses his lips to Rhys', softly, and Rhys knows for fact that he's tasting the salty-bitter aftertaste of himself, and that he's getting off on it, on knowing that he's been using Rhys.

“Don't be corny, Faris,” Rhys says into his mouth, tongue lapping at Faris' chapped bottom lip, and thrusts into his hand where it's properly stroking along his cock now. He deepens the kiss, then, eating away at his mouth to stop Faris from replying, and also to keep a soft moan from rising up his own throat. Really, he wants more than just Faris' hand, wants Faris to keep using him, to push him down and fuck him senseless and be completely satisfied with himself.

Faris grins into the kiss, as if he's thinking of the exact same thing, and apparently he is because his hand moves from Rhys' cock to the waistband of his knickers. He breaks the kiss, “you want to take these off for me?”

Rhys gasps and nods and stands up, a little too quickly, a bit too eager for it, and then he's carefully pushing the silk fabric past the lace tops of his stockings down onto the floor.

“What about these?” he asks and tugs at the sheer black of the nylon, and Faris licks his lips in affirmation. Rhys loves that, loves to see that Faris wants him, eyes glazed with it even when he's only just come.

“Keep them on. Please.”

Faris' eyes trace the outline of Rhys' body, and Rhys looks back at him. His cock is lying heavy in his lap, still sticky with waxy lipstick and spit and come, and it's already rising back to hardness once again. Rhys couldn't possibly be more pleased with that sight. He moves back into his previous position, knees planted on either side of Faris' thighs, and pulls their lips back together. His legs splay out wider than before, no longer trapped by the tight silk, and he grinds his hips against Faris' half hard cock and finally allows the moan he's been holding back out of his throat.

Faris brings one hand up to touch Rhys' cheek and wipe away some of the smeared kohl and mascara there, and the other moves to the small of his back, pushing their bodies even closer together. He's warm, incredibly warm, and that only makes Rhys shiver more, makes him want for Faris to roll them both over and fold him in half and fuck him already.

“Fuck, you're so beautiful,” Faris whispers against his lips when they finally pull apart, and Rhys simply presses his body down against his dick in response. He's so blatantly desperate for it, and he knows that Faris is enjoying the show and almost hates it, that Faris is getting off on this but still not touching him the way he wants it, even when he's technically already gotten what he wanted out of Rhys.

“Here, open up.” Faris presses two of his long fingers to Rhys' lip, softly stroking the swollen flesh, and Rhys willingly opens his mouth for them, lets them probe past his teeth and get slick with saliva.

When they withdraw and the first finally, finally circles the rim of his hole, he can't help but grin. He gets what he wants.

–

The very first time they fuck is the night after a band rehearsal. This is before the Horrors really blow up, before the album and the EP and the magazine features and video shoots. It's also a couple weeks after Rhys had kissed Faris for the first time in a sudden rush of confidence, after a gig, when he'd pressed him into the brick wall next to the back door of the venue and pushed their mouths into each other, teeth-clackingly violent. When Rhys had jerked his head back to catch his breath, after just a couple of fleeting seconds, he was prepared for a sneer and a sharp sarcastic comment, for rejection, and in his head, he started running through explanations, from alcohol to the lingering adrenaline rush of having just gotten off stage.

What he didn't expect was the way Faris grinned back at him, something close to nervous, if Rhys wasn't sure that “Faris” and “nervous” were two words that should never be uttered in the same sentence, and the way his long fingers curled into the soft hair at the very back of Rhys' head. “Well,” Faris said, the same grin still evident in his voice, “we can do that again, if you like, but can you not nearly knock my teeth out the next time?”

Rhys burst out into a short fit of nervous laughter, bracing one hand that had previously pressed into Faris' shoulder against the rough red brick. He figured that was basically an open invitation, so he pulled Faris' head down toward him again, pressing their lips together more softly this time. His tongue slid into the wet heat of Faris' mouth, actually tasting him this time around, the harsh flavour of cigarettes and beer. A little, he wondered if his own mouth tasted the same way, and then he tasted nothing as Faris pulled away and said, matter-of-fact “we should go. The others are probably waiting.”

They'd both been drunk that time, and now they were drunk again. This is after they'd spent a good few hours after their rehearsal standing around the table next to a chip shop alongside the rest of the band, sharing a platter of fish and chips and two bottles of Jack Daniels between them and getting lost in the void of seemingly endless drunken conversation, the kind that's both meaningless and meaningful at once. They continued to stay there even when the early summer rain picked up and then when the chip shop closed down for the night, but then the booze ran out and the nasty weather started to become unbearable, and so, Rhys had headed home, with Faris tagging along because he claimed it was closer than his place.

Rhys' fingers were shaking with inebriation when he unlocked the door to his flat to let Faris in, laughter ringing in his ears as it took him multiple tries to find the lock in the first place, and he deeply hoped that Faris wasn't going to wake the neighbours like that.

Once inside, Rhys immediately began peeling the thin fabric of his t-shirt from his skin, still stuck to his back with rain water. He threw the wet rag to the floor of the hallway and said, “fuck, hope you don't mind me stripping off right here, but I couldn't take the thing any more.” Really, he hoped Faris didn't mind. Or rather, he hoped Faris would maybe get the hint.

Faris just pulled off his jacket and let his eyes travel up and down Rhys' chest, not even pretending to be disinterested, probably due to the alcohol. “No, no,” he said, and a quiet drunk snigger squeezed from his throat, “perfectly all right,” and then he ran a hand through his dripping hair and added, “think I can borrow a towel?”

“Yeah, sure. Ought to have a couple clean ones in the bath.” Rhys crossed his arms, partially due to the cold pricking up goosebumps on his chest and partially because he was beginning to feel like a piece of meat under Faris' gaze, although he had to admit that the latter wasn't an entirely unpleasant feeling. “Think I'll make us some tea in the meantime. Fucking freezing in here.” He watched Faris saunter off toward the bathroom, somehow still keeping the somewhat condescending, elegant gait he had even when he was inebriated, and then turned toward the kitchen and began to search the cupboard for two clean cups that didn't have the handles broken off.

Faris came to join him just as he was stirring three sugar cubes into his tea, towel hanging over his shoulders and having also lost his shirt in the meantime. Rhys handed him the second cup, “careful, it's hot.”

“It's tea.” Faris laughed, dryly. “Should be hot.”

“You're a dick, you know that,” Rhys said, leaning back against the counter, but he couldn't keep the laughter from his voice, either.

“Well, can't say that you're not making it easy for me,” Faris said, and this time, Rhys trailed his own eyes down his body, from the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he talked over his flat chest all the way to the line of soft hair trailing from his navel past the waistband of his jeans. Might as well take the opportunity. Not like he hadn't seen Faris shirtless before, but that had been different, in dressing rooms and on stage, with too many other people and too much of a rush for Rhys to really pay attention. This time, though, this time it was just the two of them and Faris was standing with his back straight, completely unashamed with every last bit of insecurity melted away from him as if he was beckoning for Rhys to look. He was fit, too, that too-tall lanky barely teenage build, but with just enough definition in his chest and arms. Rhys had to admit he rather liked the idea of those arms holding him down, and, wait, he'd been staring for too long, hadn't he. He sipped his tea, mainly to distract himself, slightly winced at the scalding heat, and said, to distract Faris, this time, “you want to go sit down?”

Faris made a muffled noise of agreement from behind his cup.

For a while then, they drank in silence, after they'd moved to the threadbare sofa in the living room, and the entire time, Rhys tried to focus his eyes somewhere other than Faris' body, still all put on display where he was sitting on the couch. He could swear he could see Faris' eyes twitching over to a couple of times, as if he was preoccupied with the same problem, mapping out Rhys' skin slowly-but-surely and making a list of things he'd like to do to him, much like Rhys himself was currently doing. Maybe that was the alcohol that had lowered his inhibitions speaking, and maybe that was also the reason why all he could think whenever he tried to think about anything other than Faris' body was that moment from weeks earlier, the feeling of Faris' chapped lips on his and their bodies pushed together. He chanced a sideways gaze at Faris' mouth and wondered if it would feel the same if he kissed him again just now, couldn't stop himself from imagining those lips in other places, on his neck, mouthing a trail down his chest, closing around his cock, and then he thought of Faris fucking him right then and there. Faris would be the rough type, he'd decided, would have to be with how he carries himself, all violent and determined to have control, he'd have his hands grip Rhys' hips tightly while fucking him, keep his mouth at Rhys' ear to whisper soft-yet-rough nothings, words of “little bitch” and “such a pretty whore” and “so needy for my cock” and all that, things so filthy Rhys was almost surprised he managed to think them without the blood rushing to his face. He'd thought about it before, obviously even before the kiss, some nights that he was working fingers inside of himself while struggling to get off, but still, this was different. Faris was _right there,_ half naked and drunken and throwing suggestive glances and too much. Everything in this situation was too much.

Rhys sipped his tea again and stared at a dark water stain on the ceiling, and then he felt a large hand briefly touch his thigh, just before Faris put his cup down onto the coffee table and flopped down onto the sofa next to him.

“I'm not tired at all,” he said, one hand digging into his trouser pocket for his fags and lighter, “you wanna do something?”

Rhys giggled, drunkenly and almost too girlish to be anything but embarrassing, and he let himself fall backwards onto the scratchy upholstery next to Faris. “Guess we could watch a movie or something. Go out to the shop at the corner and buy more booze, or,” he began to trail off as he placed one tentative hand on Faris' stomach, softly stroking the skin, because he might as well take the initiative, right, “since we're both already drunk and half naked, you could just take the rest of my clothes off and fuck me, right?”

Faris turned to look at him, dropping his still unlit cigarette on the sofa. For a second, his face was frozen with disbelief, and then he laughed, roaring and obnoxiously loud and vibrating under Rhys' fingers.

Rhys wasn't sure what to do, whether he should just stand up and pretend he didn't say anything or whether he should just take the initiative and shut Faris up with another kiss, but then the laughter subsided and his wrist was caught in a strong grasp.

“I like the way you think, Webb,” Faris said, slow and drawling, and before Rhys could fully comprehend his response, their lips were mashed together yet again.

This time, it was sloppy and messy and with too much tongue involved, at an angle that knocked their noses together uncomfortably, but Rhys couldn't keep himself from softly gasping at the back of his throat either way.

They pulled away from each other after a couple of seconds, and Rhys brought one of his slender legs up to hook around Faris' thigh and pull himself on top of him, a movement which ended up being a lot less smooth than he'd pictured it, but Faris was kind enough to not laugh at him for it. He pushed his thumbs into Faris' belt loops and brought their foreheads together, relished the feeling of having Faris between his thighs, firm and warm and close, and said, “well. You gonna do it?”

Faris looped his arms around Rhys and slowly ran one finger along his spine, tracing the shiver that ran down Rhys' back, and he laughed. “Yeah. Think I will.”

And he did, he had Rhys twice, first right there on the sofa, Rhys' legs pushed up onto his shoulders, the itchy sofa cushions scratching at the skin of his back. Then a second time under the spray of hot water in the shower, face and hands pushed against the mouldy tiles. The entire time, Rhys keened and spluttered like a wounded animal, hands scrabbling at whatever surface he could find, be it the skin of Faris' shoulders or the smooth, slick bathroom walls. Faris was more, far more than he'd ever expected he would be, figured out just where he had to grip and squeeze Rhys' flesh, all the spots on his neck and shoulders he needed to mouth at to make shivers run down Rhys' spine, just the angle he had to thrust his hips at to really drive him crazy, all without even asking Rhys. Faris was the most Rhys had ever had, filling him up and holding him in place and claiming him with his teeth and lips, and probably the best sex Rhys had ever gotten from a guy that much younger. Still, he couldn't help but keep asking for it harder, deeper, faster, even more than he was already getting over and over again, or at least that was until Faris shoved two fingers deep into his mouth, in the shower, and growled, “will you keep it shut already, you slag,” low into his ear. After that, it turned into wordless moans and whimpers, soft sounds that Rhys absolutely couldn't stop from bubbling out of his mouth, up until they both came and Rhys' legs threatened to go weak at the knees.

After, when they'd rinsed the sweat and sticky come off their skin and settled in the bedroom between the sheets, after Faris had basically dragged Rhys back into the bedroom, Rhys threw one arm around Faris' waist and pulled himself a bit closer. He ran his fingers down Faris' side, felt the skin there still damp and hot, and mumbled against his neck, “fuck. You're good.” He paused for a second and then added, after he'd thought about it, “especially for a guy your age.”

Faris turned his head and grinned crookedly, too fucked out to make the snide remark that Rhys could have sworn would be coming, and once again, he moved his stare down Rhys' bod. This time, his eyes focussed on the purple and red bite marks and bruises blooming on Rhys' pale skin, that much paler next to Faris' own skin tone, lingering for a longer time on the finger shapes printed on his hips and neck.

He traced one hand print on Rhys' throat with his pointer finger, gently, but nevertheless sending a shiver through his body, and whispered, “you'll have to wear a scarf the next couple days, I think.”

Rhys softly laughed, already halfway drifting out of consciousness, both due to the heat radiating from the body next to him and the exhaustion of being fucked relentlessly hard. Really, he wasn't that opposed to the marks scattered all over him, evidence that this had actually happened, that Faris had claimed him, and so he pressed a kiss to one of the dark bruises he'd sucked onto Faris' collarbone and said, “worth it, though.”

“Yeah.” The finger retreated from his neck and moved to grope at Faris' own instead, swiping over a bright red mark of which Rhys didn't remember when he'd left it.

“D'you want to do this again sometime?”

Faris nodded, slowly, and pushed a damp streak of hair from his eyes. “Mm. Thought about fucking you first thing in the morning, actually.” Rhys hummed in agreement and let out a quiet laugh, and Faris continued, “but maybe with less bruises this time.”

“Then I'll try my hardest to not leave any marks,” Rhys said and moved that bit closer to Faris, felt their damp skin cling together with the lack of space between them, and let his eyes drop shut. This was nice. “Promise.”

Faris simply laughed and shut his eyes.

Later that day, they woke up and then fucked again, soft and slowly this time around, with Faris on his back and Rhys' legs clamping down around his thighs. After that, it happened again and again, after a night on the town or a gig, or just when either of them had nothing to do. They went back to Rhys' and fucked in every room of the flat, and Rhys spent most of the summer wearing a scarf wrapped around his neck and long sleeves, hiding away bruises that couldn't be explained by the injuries he received at their live shows.

Around a month after the first time, Faris ordered the leather collar on the internet.

–

The red welts forming around Rhys' wrists are already itching and he has the urge to scratch, or to twist his fingers in the sheets until his joints crack, anything to do with his hands to distract himself from the strain in his muscles and the throbbing in his dick. Instead, he settles for biting his lip to stop himself from crying out as Faris' warm tongue drags along his entrance once again, softly probing, but not quite pushing in. Even then, he still can't quite stop a squirm from running through his body, past where his shoulders are sore from being tied up down to his hips, rolling them upward to meet his mouth, and Faris pulls back and gives him a condescending laugh. No movement, no making any sound. That's the rules for tonight.

“No need to be so desperate,” he mumbles, hands running over Rhys' legs where he's pushing them back into his chest. “You want to be a good girl for me, right?”

Faris' fingers dig into the soft flesh of his thigh, pull and pinch and bruise, and Rhys isn't sure whether it's the way his knees are pressing the air out of him or how absolutely gone and useless and at-Faris'-mercy he feels that's making him bite his tongue and inhale quicker.

“Yes,” he presses out, “yes, I'm sorry.”

“You'd better be.” His knees are being forced back that little bit more, Faris basically folding him in half, and then he's back in his previous position, breath fanning out over Rhys' hole. “You know if you're not good I'm gonna have to punish you.”

He's nosing at the little triangle formed by Rhys' inner thighs and his balls, contrastingly soft when compared to the words he's actually saying and also teasing, teasing like he has for the last half hour or so that he's had Rhys tied up now. Rhys' stomach is already pulled tight, as tight as the sensitive skin of his dick, and he's close, so ready to come like he's already been a few times earlier that night, and he's so sure that if Faris even touches his cock once he'll go off, too soon, too intense. So, when Faris bites at the junction of his thigh and arse and takes the very edge off, the only noise coming from Rhys' lips is a soft sigh, but then his teeth sink in deeper, hard enough to break the skin and flare along his spine, and Rhys' breathing hitches.

At least he manages to keep the wince from escaping his throat, though, and then he whispers, “I'll be good.”

Faris pets his hip in affirmation, tongue softly flicking at the bite mark he's just left, and then, just when Rhys isn't quite on edge any more, his hand comes to wedge itself between Rhys' thighs and his stomach to take hold of his cock. He flicks his thumb under the head, then spreads the amount of precome that has already leaked out all over it, and Rhys nearly shouts, but manages to bite it back. It's the first actual touch to his cock he gets that night, reminding him just how desperate he already is, and it's part of this stupid game they're playing, Rhys knows, just Faris trying to see if he can keep his composure.

He's proven right when Faris' hand comes to a halt and pulls away, when he whispers, “now that's a good little girl,” and the next second, his hands are spreading Rhys wide open. “Gonna lick your pussy now, yeah?”

Rhys knows he's not supposed to reply to that, so he just lies there and watches when Faris' hands slide further up to pull his thighs apart, and then, like that, he can finally get a good look at Faris' face. He's got wide-blown dark eyes and full lips, obviously into this just as much as Rhys is, and the way he's looking at Rhys makes him wonder how much longer he can keep this up, how much longer until he's going to give in and give Rhys what they both want. His cock is lying hard and flushed-red on his stomach, and Rhys can't help but smile at the sight of it.

“Such a pretty little slag,” Faris says, and Rhys forces himself to look back at his face, look how he's slowly lowering himself to be level with his groin. “No moving now.”

Faris' breath is heavy on Rhys' balls and his hole when he says it, all that's visible of him the messy back of his hair between Rhys' spread legs, and the next second, when his tongue actually dips in, he has to close his eyes just to stop himself from moaning at the sight alone. His dick twitches, insides curling when Faris sucks at his hole, teeth scratching softly at the rim, and Rhys rolls his hips forward slightly, just slightly. Faris doesn't stop, though, not until Rhys is this, this close to the edge again, sets up a sloppy rhythm that goes back and forth between sucking and Faris' tongue thrusting in and out of his hole softly, until Rhys' hips are shaking and his legs are weak not just from the strain of keeping them up. He's gone soft, so so soft under Faris' mouth, under his gentle hands keeping him still, the soreness in his shoulders and the handcuffs cutting into his skin forgotten, with the only thing that matters being Faris, Faris' hands and his mouth and Rhys' need to be good for him contrasting with his need to get off.

Faris pulls back after a while, after too long and not long enough, licks a long stripe from Rhys' hole past his balls all the way to the base of his dick, and that's when Rhys loses it.

His hips stutter in Faris' grip and he makes this embarrassing whining sound, a sound that eventually turns into, “Faris, Faris, Faris, fuck.” As soon as he registers that it came out, he feels the shame rush into his face, cheeks glowing with more than just sex, and he has to force himself to not break eye contact.

Faris looks back at him with this filthy grin on his face, slowly, slowly sets Rhys' legs back onto the mattress and makes a show of licking his lips, and then he says, “enough for now.”

He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and sits up once again, and then he's leaning forward to grasp Rhys' jaw, press their lips together and slur, “let me kiss you” into his skin.

Rhys accepts, mouth caught half open still, and lets Faris slip his tongue inside, licking away at his lips idly. He doesn't taste like much, mainly like skin and soap and sweat, but Rhys knows where his mouth has been and can feel a shiver run down his spine at that train of thought. That shiver only gets stronger when Faris' fingers slip under the collar to tug at it demonstratively, tighten it that bit more around Rhys' throat, and when he pulls away, his thumb rubbing at the sweat that's been gathering on Rhys' cheek.

“You're such a perfect little slag,” Faris rasps into Rhys' ear, voice low and tinged with sex, and his thumb runs along the mark the handcuffs had left on Rhys' one wrist, “the loveliest when I've got you all tied up and helpless. I should do that more often, I think.”

Rhys gasps in affirmation, softly, softly in the back of his throat, and isn't sure whether he wants Faris to notice or not. He can't think of anything to say, what's with Faris' weight on top of him, heavy on his chest but not on his cock, so he can't get any friction out of this, so he just keeps staring at Faris' sex-struck face with big eyes, focussed on the sweat in Faris' fringe and the look in his lidded eyes like Faris is all that matters at this moment. He is.

“You look so lovely when you're desperate for my cock, you know that?”  
Faris bends his head down to kiss Rhys once more, licks at his bottom lip and tugs at his collar once again, and Rhys knows that that's what gets him the most about this scene, that he can let his stupid obscene mouth run and Rhys can't shut him up or tell him to, the sound of his own voice. The thing is, it works for Rhys, too, listening to Faris call him a slag and a cockslut, gets under his skin and makes him want it that much more. Makes him want to be a good little whore and a beautiful slut for Faris.

“I could do this to you all day, you know. Just tie you up and tease you, but I'm starting to get a bit horny myself.”

Rhys can't not look down at that, at Faris' dick lying taut and precome-dripping against his stomach, the head of it this close to smearing wetly over Rhys' skin, and hopes this means he'll have it inside him soon. His hole clenches a bit at the thought, already too open and empty, and then Faris' hand on his jaw tugs his head backwards.

“My eyes are up here, remember?” Faris says and laughs, low and cold, almost mocking, and then he's pushing two long fingers into Rhys' mouth with no warning.

Rhys sucks them down almost immediately, swirls his tongue to coat them with spit, and Faris comments, “very eager for it.” He softly thrusts his hand back and forth, spits, “slut,” and Rhys lets the smallest noise slip past his lips. He can't help but imagine having those fingers inside of him, probing him and prodding hard at his insides, hips struggling to stay still at the thought.

“You probably wish you had my cock in your mouth instead, don't you. You want it so hard.”

Like that, Faris rips his fingers away, quick enough to make Rhys gasp and splutter a little bit, trails of spit clinging to his chin and connecting his mouth to Faris' hand. The next second, those fingers are forcing themselves into Rhys' hole, already open and slick with spit, but still, Rhys' eyes go wide at the sudden sensation of being stretched wide once more. Faris pulls away, his weight gone, and twists his fingers, makes Rhys bite his lip and dig his nails into his palms in an attempt to not lose control. He knows Faris is watching him, eyes trailing from his make-up smeared face to the collar to the bruises scattered around his torso down to his cock and his own hand, so obviously delighted by the sight it makes Rhys' skin crawl.

His free hand demonstratively drops to his own cock, and this time, Faris obviously wants Rhys to look, judged by the way his thumb swirls around the head and pulls back the foreskin to show off the precome gathering there, touches that are more for show rather than actual gratification. He rubs the tip of his dick against the inside of Rhys' thigh, smearing the delicate skin there with precome, teasing, and Rhys just watches him, every little twitch in his body, tries to focus on Faris' need to get off rather than his own.

“Can't wait until I finally fuck you,” Faris growls, his voice all deep and gravelly like it only gets when he's really desperate, and right then, he presses both his fingertips against Rhys' prostate and continues, “bet you can't wait to have my cock filling you up either.”

That's it, the moment when it's too much and a whimper slips from Rhys' mouth, and another, another pressed out of him by Faris' fingers rubbing circles into him. His toes curl and his head rolls back at the amount of stimulation he hadn't been getting, even under Faris' dark eyes fixed onto him, and only when he's worked up, hips rolling into Faris' touch and hissing little pleas of “come on come on come on,” does Faris pull his fingers away carefully.

“Enough of that.” His fingers return to Rhys' lips and, this time, with his mouth still caught open, just slide in without any invitation. Again, Rhys sucks them down obediently, this time really making a show of it, because he knows how much Faris gets off on Rhys sucking on things that have been inside him. “Thought you were going to be a good girl for me and not move or make a sound?” Faris asks as he slowly, slowly eases his fingers back out of Rhys' mouth. He makes a point of tugging at the collar again, bending down to leer over Rhys as if to show him who he belongs to, and to show that he's fucked up. His other hand goes to pet Rhys' hip, deliberately avoiding his cock, and Rhys swallows.

“I'm sorry, Faris.” He bites his lip when Faris' finger describes a soft line along his cock and says, “I won't do it again. Promise.”

“It's all right, love,” Faris says, and like that, both of his large hands are on Rhys' thighs. “Only question is, how am I going to have you?” He pulls Rhys' body upward, until he's almost got him in his lap, and Rhys lets him, soft like a rag doll in his grip. “Legs around my waist? Or pushed up on my shoulders?”

Faris removes his hand from one of Rhys' legs and it drops down onto the mattress, just like that, and that hand plays with the thin chain ringing the handcuffs around the bar of the headboard instead. “I could roll you over and have you on all fours. Or on your stomach.”

Rhys whispers, “I don't care,” and knows that it was a rhetorical question, that technically, he isn't supposed to be speaking in the first place, but Faris is too close, his hand too hot, his cock just pushing barely into Rhys' thigh, and it's all too much. “Just fuck me already.”

Faris ignores it, apparently, and instead contemplates out loud, “I could finish on your face if I fuck you on your back.” There's a shiver running down Rhys' back at that thought, at the idea of being humiliated and completely owned. He tries to hide a gasp and fails. “But you might enjoy that a little too much.”

Rhys looks up at Faris as he says it, sneers it, rather, and he figures that it's just about time, time for Faris to just go ahead and fuck him already, but then Faris pulls away and sits back on his heels.

“On the other hand,” he starts. One hand goes to his cock, thumbs along the whole length of it just to emphasize how huge it really is, and Rhys just wants him to hurry up. He's so ready for it, trying so hard to be good and pliant and do what he's meant to do, but with how on edge he already is, it's incredibly difficult.

“You don't seem to be very good at following my orders, since all you're doing is squirm and moan when I told you to stay still.” Faris keeps stroking himself, slowly and demonstratively, and Rhys tries not to think of how good it would feel inside of him, how close he was to getting fucked just a few moments ago. He turns his eyes to the ceiling and composes himself.

“Faris grips Rhys' jaw tightly and tilts his head until they're face to face, and continues to slip the fingers of his other hand up and down his dick. “Hey. Look at me.” He's close to Rhys' face once again, their breaths mingling, and it's so intimate, such a soft moment, even when Faris keeps on snarling at him. “I could just leave you here like this, you know. Not let you come at all and make you watch while I get myself off to the thought of you actually obeying.” He clips his teeth into Rhys' jaw for a short second and whispers, “could do that.”

“Faris, please,” Rhys whispers, begs, really, although he's trying his hardest to keep his voice as calm as possible, “don't.” He wants to keep Faris where he is, close to him for the moment, but he can't, so his hands only struggle weakly against the handcuffs. “Come fuck me. I'll be good for you, okay?”

“You've already said that three times tonight,” Faris points out, and his one hand goes to grip Rhys' arm, holding it in place.

“I really mean it,” Rhys insists. “I'll stay quiet.” He's so soft now, so overwhelmed, but he still manages to keep his voice calm when he says, “I'm sorry, Faris.”

“Okay,” Faris says, “Okay. Apology accepted.” His voice is still rough, stern with no compassion, but his face is going softer. “I'm going to fuck you. Reckon you'll be at least a bit more satisfying than my hand.”

Rhys swallows at that, shivering with want and knees shaking, but he doesn't reply. He's going to be good.

“Turn over,” Faris commands, and that hand on his wrist presses the cool metal of the handcuffs into the sore flesh there.

Rhys obeys, and it's hard, what's with Rhys being unable to move his hands, but he manages to flip himself onto his stomach, awkward and flailing. The soft silk sheets finally provide some friction on his cock, finally, finally, but he keeps his hips still, wants to be good, and then Faris' hands are pulling them up once again.

“Stay like this.”

Rhys can hear the faint sound of lube being squirted from its bottle, can feel Faris' legs settle raround his hips, and the next second, the head of his cock, slick and cold, prodding at his entrance. His insides clench and unclench in anticipation, because this is it, he's so close to getting what he needs, hips struggling to stay still when Faris thrusts back and forth a couple of times. He's not entering him just yet, merely poking the very tip of his dick against Rhys' hole, but still, it's so, so much and Rhys _knows_ Faris can feel his shudders through the one hand splayed across his back.

“I should just make you come like this,” Faris whispers, sounding so much closer than he should be, and then his weight slowly drops down onto Rhys' back, and, oh, that's why. “Just tease you until you can't hold it in any more, since you're so eager for it.” His hand comes down to tug at Rhys' cock, quick and harsh and almost painful with the amount of friction that he's getting from the sheets. “And then I fuck you when you're already sore and sensitive and make you come again.”

Rhys lets himself moan, and at first it's in agreement, he reckons, but then Faris strokes him faster and it turns more desperate, only barely muffled by the pillow under his face. Faris is heavy on top of him, pressing him down further into the mattress, his dick lying slick and hot in the dip of Rhys' arse, just _there_ , and Rhys. Rhys just can't. He's still soft inside, still wants to let Faris own him and take over him, but that need is too big, too hot.

“Faris, come on,” Rhys whines. It's almost girlish in just how whiny it is. “Please. You want it too, we both want it. Please. Fuck me already.” He bites his lip when he realises how desperate he sounds, how desperate he really _is_ , but still, he can't keep another “please” from slipping out.

Faris laughs, low and so obviously desperate, and his hand slips away from Rhys' dick.

“But it's so fun. Watching you like this.” He nuzzles his face into the sweaty back of Rhys' neck, licks an old mark there, and only then he continues, “but since you asked so nicely...”

The hand on Rhys' back presses him down that bit further into the mattress, and then Faris' cock is finally, finally sliding into him, inch by inch, and now Rhys is actually biting the pillow to keep the moans from slipping out. He can be good now.

“There we go,” Faris whispers, voice heavy with sex. “And now shut up.”

He begins to pull back, slowly, slowly, before he slams back in, and Rhys would thrash if it weren't for that hand holding him in place.

“If you keep quiet I'll let you come.”

–

It's the part of the day when it's too light to be night but too early to be considered morning, either, and Rhys is in the kitchen, cooking tea. This became a thing between them somewhere along the way, kind of like how the collar and the knickers and the covering up marks have become things between them. It just kind of happened, that between the first and second round, they always drink tea. Another unwritten rule is that there are always two rounds when they fuck, the first in Rhys' bed, then the second wherever they feel like it, in the shower or on the bedroom floor or on the sofa. One time, against the wall in the hallway, Rhys' legs clinging to Faris' waist so tightly he was scared he would snap him in half.

The hot water finishes boiling and Rhys pours two cups and moves to sit at the crowded kitchen table, carefully to keep the silk of the knickers he's wearing from brushing too much against his now sensitive cock. He's still sore from the orgasm that Faris had fucked him into not even an hour ago and a little, he regrets putting them back on, but then, he knows that Faris loves when he wears them. Faris loves the thrill of seeing an angular male body pressed into frilly lingerie, the inherent depravity of it, of seeing a male wearing lacy stockings and panties and make-up, and Rhys in turn loves the slippery fabric caressing his skin, to slip on a pair of panties and feel pretty, and, of course, to see what it does to Faris.

He stirs his tea and takes a slow first sip, careful to not burn his lips, and skims through yesterday's paper, not really reading but just looking for something to distract himself until Faris shows up. Another thing, between the rounds, Faris always takes a shower, because he hates the sensation of being sticky with sweat and sex and the occasional red lipstick. Rhys scratches at his own stomach, where the come is slowly drying and sticking the soft hairs to his skin, and wonders if maybe he should have joined Faris in the shower.

Faris finally steps through the kitchen door when Rhys has finished his tea and is absent mindedly solving the crossword puzzle, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs and still dripping wet onto the wooden floorboards.

Rhys points his biro pen toward the cup placed on the counter and says, “Should be cold now.”

Faris takes the seat next to him at the table and takes a sip from his tea. “Still lukewarm,” he notes, and then hums to no particular tune. The pads of his fingers come to rest on Rhys' bare thigh, the skin on them still shrivelled from the shower, and he rubs small circles against the flesh, softly touching but nothing more. “Hey.”

Rhys turns his head and replies, “hey,” as well, and he shivers a little when Faris lays his chin onto his shoulder, the contrast of warm flesh and cold moisture against his body jarring. Faris' other hand comes to wrap around his waist, pulling himself all the way around him, and he makes a soft noise of content against Rhys' ear. Rhys leans back against Faris, eyes fluttering shut, basking in the feeling of simply being close to him. He can't stop himself from letting out a similar sound, because while he's more than into being slapped around and dominated by Faris, he enjoys this other, more affectionate side of him as well.

Faris cups his chin and presses light kisses to Rhys' cheekbone, slowly moving closer and closer to his mouth until their lips meet. The kiss is gentle and tame, nothing but chapped lips pushing against each other, and Rhys keeps his eyes shut as his hands roam over Faris' back, fingers pushing into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Already in the back of his mind he's thinking of round two, he figures that they'll fuck on the sofa or the soft carpet in the bedroom, slowly and gently this time, no collar, no bruises, but even then, that can still wait.

When they part again, Rhys quirks the corners of his mouth into a smile and remarks, “you seem to be in a good mood.”

“'course I am,” Faris says, voice low, and he moves his hand to push the still sweaty locks of Rhys' fringe from his face, “played a great gig last night. Got a great shag and now I've got you here. Lot of reasons to be in a good mood.”

He presses another kiss to Rhys' jaw and runs his thumb over his cheekbone, and Rhys shakes his head and snorts mockingly under his breath. “God, you've gone all soft.”

“Didn't.”

“Yeah, you did. Talking about your feelings and all.”

“Didn't.” Faris drops his head to press a kiss to Rhys' collarbone, over a bruised bite mark from earlier that night. “Said you were a great shag, didn't I. Not what I'd call sentimental.”

“Admit it, you've gone soft,” Rhys says, and he's trying to stay as serious as their conversation topic will allow it in the first place, but he can't stop small sniggers from bubbling up his throat.

Faris chuckles as well and runs his hand along Rhys' side, and he says, casually as ever, “like how you're saying that after I'd spent last night blindfolding and tying you up and fucking you senseless. Soft, yeah.”

Rhys laughs once again and points out, “yeah, because I asked you to do that.” Still, he leans back into Faris' touch, feels him all warm and wide around him, and he wants to sigh.

“Well, I still did it, didn't I.” Faris lets his hand run along Rhys' upper arm and adds, “fuck, you're freezing.”

Rhys nods and turns to kiss his neck and says, “we should go to my bedroom. 's warmer there.” He strokes Faris' thigh, moving his hand up higher and higher until his fingers brush the fabric of his briefs. It's decided.

Faris looks down at him and grins, this little glint in his eyes, and Rhys can tell that they're both thinking of the same thing.

–

Another morning, and they've ended up in the kitchen again. Faris has Rhys pressed down against the counter, cock already pushing against his arse through the fabric of his knickers, and his fingers trace patterns on Rhys' hips, slowly slipping into his waistband.

Rhys' hands scrabble uselessly against the polished counter top, knees already beginning to feel a little weak, or maybe that's the exhaustion from round one creeping up on him.

Technically, this is the third time for tonight that they're fucking. Faris had taken Rhys out for dinner and then to the pub, and on their way back, they'd passed a park, they'd scored the fence and laid down on the grass, looking up at the stars and smoking fags and talking nothing. Eventually, Faris had pulled Rhys closer by the back of his neck and kissed him, and then they'd fucked right there, blades of grass digging painfully into the soft skin of Rhys' palms and his stomach where his shirt had rucked up, and after their breaths had caught and they'd pulled their trousers back on, they went back to Rhys' flat and fucked again.

Rhys' cock still aches a little from having already come twice in one night, but right now, he doesn't care, the amount of turned on he is outweighing the pain, and besides, he's got more important things to think about right now, seeing as Faris is pulling his knickers down to his thighs and softly licking at a mark he'd left earlier on the side of his throat.

“Fucking finally,” Rhys mumbles when the silk fabric that had been pressing against him too tightly hits the floor, and Faris laughs against his neck, lowly, so close Rhys can feel the heat of his breath on his skin.

“Thought this kind of thing gets you off. Women's clothes and that.”

“Mm, yeah. It's just,” Rhys pauses as he hears, and vaguely feels, the motion of Faris pushing his fingers into his own mouth, and his hole twitches empty, already anticipating what's about to come. He gasps and breathes out, “they're so tight, it hurts.”

There's a soft popping noise as Faris removes his fingers, and then they're slick and tracing a soft line down Rhys' side, sending a shiver down his back, and Rhys begins to grind his hips. He swears he can feel Faris' cock pulsate with blood against him where it's resting in the cleft of his arse and can't help but let out a small moan, doesn't want to wait any longer to have Faris fucking him again, but then one large hand settles on his hipbone and holds him still.

Faris whispers, “God,” and sucks at the smooth skin of Rhys' shoulder blade, and Rhys is sure he can hear his voice shaking just the tiniest bit, shaking with how turned on he is, and it's exactly the same way that Rhys feels. He grips the counter a little tighter as he feels two fingers being pushed into his hole where he's still stretched and sticky with lube and come from earlier that night, and then he's _really_ grateful that he's got the counter to hold on to, because his knees feel like they might just give out.

“So,” Faris continues. “You're already sore then?” and the shaking just won't stop, it's the same shaking that's currently running through Rhys' whole body, the same frantic yet subtle rhythm with which Faris is pushing against his prostate over and over as he spreads and twists his fingers.

Rhys groans, long and almost whining and pent up, and even when he's caught his breath again, his reply still comes out shaky. “Little bit, yeah,” he replies. He doesn't have to see Faris' face to know that he's grinning, obviously satisfied with how worked up he's gotten Rhys once again.

Faris presses a kiss to the soft spot under Rhys' ear and whispers something that sounds less like actual words and more just a jumbled combination of vowels expressing just how much he wants it as well, and then his fingers are gone. Rhys wants to whine at the sudden emptiness, but then, he can hear Faris spit into his hand and so, instead, he arches his back that bit more. His knuckles turn white as he grips the counter.

“Mm, well,” Faris starts, and then he pushes into Rhys in a single thrust. He rolls his hips, once, twice, and Rhys feels it jolt through him, the mixture of pleasure and pain at once.

He pushes back when Faris hits a good spot and hisses, “right there, right there, fuck. Do that again,” and Faris does, and it's enough to make Rhys cry out.

One of Faris' hands comes to cover Rhys' smaller one, aching where the edge of the counter had dug into the flesh, and the other grasps at his chin, tilting his head to the side carefully. Their lips smush against each other messily and Rhys darts out his tongue, tastes cigarettes and the earthy flavour of an empty stomach in Faris' mouth. He wants to fist his hand in Faris' hair and keep him right there, keep him close, because this feels so right and so so good, and he doesn't want to let go, ever. He's pretty sure his legs might give out and send him crashing to the floor if he moves his hands, though, and so he settles for moaning wordless sounds into Faris' mouth.

When they finally break apart, after what seems like both way too long and not long enough, it's with swollen lips and completely out of breath. Rhys gasps and sucks in air sharply as soon as Faris pulls away from him, and then he feels his mouth move at the side of his neck once again, teeth and tongue softly grazing the flesh. Faris is rolling his hips in circular motions, and Rhys' eyes flutter shut when he hits that spot once again, sending little shock waves up his spine. There's a hand stroking at Rhys' hip, slowly moving closer and closer to where his cock is aching with both the soreness from earlier and the need to come again, and then when Faris finally grasps it and begins to slowly jerk him, Rhys cries out, a long drawn out keen from the back of his throat.

“What I was going to say,” Faris whispers, voice husky with sex, just as he flicks his thumb over the head of Rhys' dick, “I was gonna say that I hope you don't mind if I make it worse, if I make you come so hard it actually hurts.” His lips move against the outer whorl of Rhys' ear, warm breath against already heated flesh, and the words come out slowly, intercepted by deep gasping breaths. He shifts the angle of his hips, just the slightest amount, but it's enough to grind the head of his cock against Rhys' prostate on every thrust.

“No, no, fuck,” Rhys gasps, after the few seconds it takes him to catch his breath, “just,” and he grips the counter even tighter than he previously thought he even could, “keep doing that, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Faris breathes more than says, “yeah, sure,” and he thrusts into Rhys again.

It's a fast fuck, after that, over in a matter of minutes. Rhys can feel it a couple seconds before it actually happens, the tightness in his balls and the twitching in his cock, and then he comes into Faris' hand, gasping and spluttering, eyes squeezing shut and hands pushing onto the edge of the counter.

Through the ache that clouds his nerve endings and runs shivers through his body, Rhys can just barely feel Faris' hips speeding up, thrusting into his hole where the muscles are clenching down, and then he finishes inside Rhys, with a long, low groan that vaguely sounds like “fuck fuck fuck”.

Then, like that, it's over, and Rhys can feel his knees actually buckle, his hands this close to giving out as well, but Faris holds him steady with a sweaty hand under him. “You all right?” he whispers, voice soft and affectionate, and Rhys nods, “think so.”

Like that, they wait for a couple of seconds, letting Faris' cock soften inside of Rhys, and then, when their breaths have caught and Rhys' legs no longer threaten to drop him to the floor, they slowly pull apart. Another few seconds, they just stand there holding each other, and Rhys can feel his ribcage shake with his heavy breathing and the boom of his heart rate, and he isn't sure, but he thinks he can feel Faris' heart hammering as well where their chests touch.

Faris brings his sticky hand that he'd touched Rhys with to his face and licks one long line along the palm, and Rhys pulls a face and says, “irk,” but he lets Faris kiss him either way and push his own salty-bitter taste into his mouth. He's beginning to feel disgusting, sticky with the lines of sweat running down his whole body and the splatters of come drying across his stomach, and he thinks he can feel Faris leaking out his arse just slightly and can't resist the urge to say “irk” once again.

Faris laughs and nuzzles his face against a bite mark on Rhys' neck, and he asks, “mm, shower?”

“Later,” Rhys says, linking their fingers together and leaning up to press a quick kiss to the corner of Faris' mouth, “let's go sleep first, all right?”

–

They're on tour, somewhere in Europe, Rhys thinks. He watches the tourists passing by, tries to ignore as they stare at his dark clothes and smudgy eyeliner. A little, he hopes that his hair isn't too messed up, and he shifts the way he's sitting on the curb, but can't really find a comfortable position, seeing as no matter how he moves, his drainpipes just end up pressing his underwear uncomfortably against his sore dick. Faris had told him to wait here, can't have people see them leaving a public bathroom together. On the old brick wall across from him, someone had sprayed “I LOVE YOU” in red paint, it's really close to the shade of red that's still on Rhys' nails in tiny specks of paint.

From behind him comes a voice, “this is so fucking stupid,” and Rhys turns to see Faris standing on the pavement, cigarette dangling down from between his two fingers. He picks himself up, slowly, and rearranges his cape, and when he holds out his hand, Faris passes him his fag.

“I don't understand,” Rhys starts, taking a long drag, “why's it stupid?”

He hands the cigarette back to Faris, who replies, “I don't see why you gotta be so flashy about it. Don't see why you gotta tell anyone you love them, because if you really do, they probably already know.”

Rhys snorts mockingly. “So that's why you never tell me you love me, then.”

“Nah,” Faris goes and puffs out a huge cloud of smoke. “That's 'cause I don't want you to get attached.”

“Oh, you hurt me,” Rhys says and pulls a face. He takes Faris' fag without asking and smokes it down to the filter in just a couple drags.

“Don't act like you don't love it when I do that.” Faris' voice is unusually soft, and the back of his hand brushes Rhys' below the cape. It almost seems accidental. “I love that. How much you love it.”

Rhys smiles, softly, and then the moment is over. “We should get back to the bus. We don't have all day.”

**Author's Note:**

> the piece of graffiti at the end is real, by the way. it's on the inside of the _Porta Nigra_ in Trier, Germany, although I doubt the Horrors have ever been there since it's mostly just historical sights.


End file.
